Arani

❝ 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞...❞ she/her | intj-a | 26 ʀᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ꜱᴄʀɪʙʙʟᴇꜱ ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴ 1...2.. ᴍᴀɪɴ ʙʟᴏɢ • ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

[luminote]

Always, almost.

[petrichara]

Love, grief, and magic in the mundane

1- @Bluewmist on Twitter / 2- Roly Poly is Taken on Twitter / 3- About Time (2012) by Richard Curtis, image from Mita Park on Unsplash / 4- Sherri Turner on Twitter / 5- Cold Solace by Anna Belle Kaufman / 6- The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green

[drops-of-universe]

the voices in my head tell me to quadruple the amount of garlic required for any recipe. and i listen

[petaltexturedskies]

Anaïs Nin, in a diary entry dated 27 February 1929, featured in The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin: Vol. IV, 1927-1931

[metamorphesque]

why do all the words sound heavier in my native language?

—  @metamorphesque, Yoojin Grace Wuertz (Mother Tongue), Still Dancing: An Interview With Ilya Kaminsky (by Garth Greenwell), Jhumpa Lahiri (Translating Myself and Others), @lifeinpoetry

[circadeacademia]

Before me, all my girls

there's this world where my mother is a pesky little girl.

wildflowers glistening on her midnight helices,

stygian locks frolicking over her honey coated face

and no one has taught her to care for things yet.

there's this town where my mother is a frisky ickle menace.

a peckish summer on the roof of her tongue,

where the sun dims before her 24k gleam

and no one has told her how to behave yet.

there's this house where my mother is her mother's child.

she hasn't learnt to soak in the rain,

she hasn't seen the butterflies dead

and not even her mother dared to show her yet.

I meet my mother at her childhood home.

I don't ask to comb her hair, I don't frown at the dirt under her feet —

I lend her honeyed words to help the venom go down that she's yet to accumulate.

I wrap her heart in the coziest blanket before even the first shiver touches her spine.

there's this world where she's not a mother yet

she's the girl I've searched for my entire life

long before the world chained her fate

and put a curse of womanhood on her limbs….

I meet my mother, her mother, all the mothers before them

to heal.

to dig up the hole I was buried in.

to say “I wish your mother understood you.”

I look for all the girls bound by blood

and tangled roots of their wombs

I uproot their world, their home

and scream at the top of my lungs, “that's my girl!”

— circadeacademia

[circadeacademia]

I am earth's debt

I am but not one with roots deep

into the soil of motherly love,

I am not some forest with fire kissed locks

not an ancient tree, neither do I carry

eons of life debt upon my shoulder…

I am but a seed uprooted in heavy storm

sole witness to my displaced burial ~

an untimely bloom of dirt

I am not one to touch the sky,

not one to climb ribcages of this weary world….

I am no mother, I am no children

I am not one with a blessed existence.

but I am here.

like a half remembered dream,

like a faded hope, like an almost

I am here.

I am not one of you.

but my tears soak the ground,

my blood feeds the soil just the same….

my footprints upon the forest bed

a pondering moon over my head

the dirt under my fingernails,

the rot, the bloom, the wildness —

is here. and so am I.

I am no heaven. I am no hell.

I am but life, I am but death.

not one of you, but all of earth's debt.

— circadeacademia

[writers-potion]

Soft-Feeling Latin Words & Phrases

Another list of Latin phrases, this time with soft/warm meanings. It is 2:39am as I make this list.

a te pro te: from thee for thee

ab imo pectore: from the bottom of the heart

volat hora per orbem: time files through the world

coelum versus: heavenward

concubia nocte: at dead of night

crepusculum: twilight or dusk

crescens luna: a cresent moon

cum corde: with the heart

labores solis: an eclipse of the sun

in horam viviere: to live for the moment

in rerum natura: in the nature of things

in tuto esse: in a safe place

ingens aequor: the vast ocean

inter vivos: among the living

januae mentis: inlets of knowledge

jenuis clausis: in secret, with closed doors

littera scripta manet: the written letter remains

lux mundi: light of the world

lux vitae: light of life

meo voto: by my wish

mox nox: soon night

multis cum lacrimis: with many tears

ningit: it is snowing

occidui temporis umbra: a shadow at sunset

opinio vana: an illusion

osculum pacis: kiss of peace

papilio: butterfly

par pari refero: tit for tat

per vian dolorosam: the way of sorrows

philtrum: a love potion

pluvia: rain

res rustica: a rural affair

ros marinus: rosemary

semel et semper: once and always

silva: wood or forest

sinus urbis: heart of the city

As always, happy writing!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! Also, join my Tumblr writing community for some more fun.

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2 

Reference: Latin for the Illiterati: a modern guide to an ancient language by Jon R. Stone, second edition 2009.

[circadeacademia]

Icarus, I know how it felt

I too, was a sunflower once

a summer song, a bard in motion.

I too, longed to be kissed by poems

to be fallen apart, crumbled against the palms like golden dust….

I too, inked moth’s madness onto my skin

chained my fate with ember sparks.

melted wax running down my shoulders

like sweet release of an angel's sin,

my ablaze skin

death's breath against my chin

but the fire that never really burnt out

was fuelled by the flames of my heart.

had the dead dreaming of the fireflies

ripped open my ribcage;

had the song of ocean turned my world upside down

had this bizarre triumph condemned me

to you for my heaven and inferno;

had my twisted fate, been a second too slow

I would've plummeted a supernova from the sky….

ruins of my hubris rained like burnt crystals

warped out of shape and time

was it my destiny to drown?

half ashes, half ocean in my lungs?

was it laugh of a madman?

echoing as I danced my way down?

one kiss. heaven’s venomous lips.

fallen. from one blue to the other.

to steal moment's golden bliss.

was it love? or damnation of a poet?

I know how it felt.

to long the eternity once for myself.

— circadeacademia

[circadeacademia]

A list poem on things worse than death

i. I'm painting my lips with the brightest red of life. it's bleeding into my mouth, staining my teeth. it tastes rancid and sits on my gut.

ii. I drug my feral heart every fortnight. cleanse the lovesick blood with my favourite poison. your eyes are deeper than the trench of my self deprivation.

iii. I visited the grave of my childhood yet again. it was right beneath my home where I buried it last. it's growing roots now, crushing my bones.

iv. My mirror's eyes are haunting me. I might kill it soon.

v. The walls are speaking to me. they speak a tongue of memories I can't recall anymore.

vi. I must've smeared my lips against my heart. It's taking over veins and screaming in plasmic angst.

vii. My parents raised a hellhound. It chewed its way out of the belly button. they named it sweetheart and fed trauma in flesh.

viii. Grief is stuck in my unreachable zones. in my gray matter, in my lungs. I forgot breathing, I unlearned thinking. but how do I shed my pericardium?

ix. And when I asked, even death betrayed.

— circadeacademia

[circadeacademia]

Is somebody gonna match my grief?

I've been a sad… sad girl.

I'm one part atlantis, two parts ocean. tell me, is my voice blue enough to dilute this venom under my breath?

there's black ink dribbling down my cheeks, contaminating my river of sanity…. tell me, is my blood sound enough to imagine it's worst memory?

I named my heart after kintsugi, but this rage within is aqua regia — fuming, devouring the last of my dissolved melancholy.

I held the last glass of luck, but I dropped it into the fathomless chasm of my mind.

now I have mirror for eyes, fog for voice. and no gold dipped poetry to reconcile these broken atoms…

I, a lamb raised in a slaughterhouse — have the finest butcher of the famished town on my speed dial.

on a good day, I let him mince my grief to feed my childhood home. after all, it's where I inherited my mother's plasmic anguish and my father's bubble wrapped ego.

I was the virulent disease to the hypochondriac air inside that house. I made it sick with my grief and asked — does my sorrow make you uncomfortable?

I live in a constant state of drowning waves, crashing against the shore of my consciousness. I have two blades for a split tongue, that follows the scent trails of my misery in a garden of foxglove and nightshade.

I can taste the salt in the air, evaporating from my lungs to the ocean….

I've been a sad…. sad girl.

and there's a billion ways to torment me.

my forlorn heart is dragging me down,

is somebody gonna match my grief?

— circadeacademia

[circadeacademia]

An August Confession

The neutral zone between me and august is a secluded fountain of violent desire. it is a bowl of honey dipped sacrificed wishes breathing into penny rust and yassified mold.

august is a man of dishonour.

august is the balm that burns my wounds. august is the goodbye that i keep like barbed wires between my teeth….

because it is inconvenient to give up in august.

I've been starving since the dead of february. but now the redolence of autumn is filling up my lungs and i'm throwing up summer with a lingering stench of spring — to make room for a sugar-coated bullet in my chamber.

i think i'm losing it a little more everyday.

sugar in my blood

lead in my veins ~

this glorious tide of august is just a mild poison and i’ve been immune since my last death day in june.

I smoked a joint with the moon the other day, sent haikus to september with fingerprint hearts.

it said, mama look

august has ruined my thank you

now i live again.

i’m as sentient as the collection of dead letters overflowing my mailbox.

I'm without a muse in august, unable to decipher symphony from the cry of a newborn baby.

august is a bare bodied symmetrical mess — holding summer's eulogy in autumn’s embrace.

august is a liar. ain't no one ever set foot in august and mourned for summer…. ain't no one ever touched august with a pocket full of rusty air and longed to die….

O august, you are born old soul

reeking of sun and burnt moon

your waves overhead, washing the stains away

that summer has painted on me.

O august, you deserve your time as long as a slow blink

for this neutral zone between you & me

has always been hope.

there's not one killer bone under you skin

so stay. stay for a moment & tell me how you've been.

— circadeacademia

[circadeacademia]

The suicidal vampiress

A life sized stone wall between you and me.

but I watch wisteria locks spilling through these chipped rocks to this barren land

and I imagine, love must be the oldest shade of lavender.

I smell the wind blowing from your porch through the black sea —

carrying the same dying wish, drawing its last breath at my doorstep

and I imagine, love must be the deepest shade of gray.

I howl with the wolves in harmony, hoping for the moon to sing a lullaby my age

the morning has sun rays shimmer on the best parts of your face;

and I imagine, love must be the boldest shade of gold.

I might be on top of the food chain, but this yearning to put my heart at stake,

to give it to you in a cold casket, so you can pull a string & beat out of it —

is when I imagine, love must be a desperate red.

I stand guard to this behemoth fortress, soaking in petrichor decay

the sky owes me a summer, but then you brought fireflies into my hollow caves

and I imagine, love must be cerulean in your embrace.

all my youth, drowning in shades of blue in atlantis.

all my ruth, growing wildflowers in crevices of concrete.

all my years borrowed, sprinkling dust under the sun.

all my life, I imagined a rainbow death.

the suicidal vampiress….. they said.

but now I have summer in my bones, now I have the ocean's breath.

the wall between you and me, long fallen

I'm drenched in lavender, gold and gray

I left my cerulean heart at your crimson shrine

and now I'm home. and now I'm sleeping just fine.

— circadeacademia

[charbroiledchicken-deactivated2]

reblog if you're a writer but would rather drink straight cyanide than show any of your family members your work

[circadeacademia]

Malignancy of swans

Dedication:

to my beloved, to my fragile little cygnet

….nested inside these folded pages….

scar tissues over my lungs from breathing too loud, your fingers imprinted on my ivory neck…. like wheat surrendered to the sun, I too had a perfectly splendid song.

the harmony of night is yet to begin

but my skin too pale & my neck too long

and now even the ghosts are tired of listening to me.

you said your blood needs rest, so I left my heart stranded on top of your wine glass, toasting a half miracle.

crimson patchwork over white plumes;

for you my love. all of it.

phantom limbs over lost wings;

for you my love. all of it.

a baptism in poison water;

for you my love. all of it.

shoulders bleed.

your cygnet did.

for you my love. all of it.

shoulders itch.

midnight's screech birthed onyx feathers

it engulfed my skin, my soul, my dream.

come my love, rest on my lips. have a look at the colour before the glass cuts too deep.

the malignancy of swans has caught up to my neck — let your lullaby be my swan song, let my coal heart dress for the wake.

my love, I do perfect pirouettes over these folded pages as my shadow burns a chasm into their core.

Epilogue:

for my beloved, for my formidable cygnus

…..lingering over these charred pages……

— circadeacademia

[here-lies-beetlejuice]

[circadeacademia]

A red and white season

I am a shiver down my spine, snow dust on the hemlock tree, woolen knots over my swan neck kind of girl;

a bride's veil over my backyard kind of girl;

homemade chicken soup with spicy ginger kind of girl;

runny nose in dark boots kind of girl; heavy blanket soaking the last warmth of a dying year and crackling fire logs kind of girl.

I am a humming carol, cinnamon talc under my fingernails, cookie crust between my teeth, crafting tales under mistletoe kind of girl.

I am a girl who sends billets-doux to every hill station she can dream of.

I am a december snowflake in deep midwinter, who sucks on the pale sun to ease her throat.

I am a girl with blizzard hollers for her first cry, blowing frozen candles on a numbing night.

I am a solitary rose on pristine ground, a delicate frostling, a runaway maiden from the summer sun.

— circadeacademia